A Lie Too Late

Holding in a sigh, I reached for the doorknob and hesitated before opening my front door.
To think, I was afraid of stepping into my own home!
Home.
The definition of that word didn’t apply here; this wasn’t home. This was a barrack of wood and stone, shielding my belongings from rain.
This wasn’t home.
It wasn’t even noon yet, and I was already standing on the falling-apart front porch.
I couldn’t turn the doorknob.
Instead, I pulled out my phone and read the unopened text I had gotten from Josh.
“What happened?”
Leaning against the wall, I quickly typed out the single word.
“Suspended.”
Yeah.
Even though it was those wankers fault, I had gotten the short end of the bloody stick.
This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation to explain to my father, considering he was always home.
For a second, I contemplated running back towards the rock near the river and stay there.
If I had to, I’d spend all day there.
Just to pretend I had attended school this week, then everything would be back to normal.
“How long?” Josh’s new text read.
“Just the rest of the week.” I sighed, sending the message and waiting impatiently for his reply.
“Do I still get to see you?”
“Of course.” I typed. “After school, just like always.”
Holding on tighter to the strap of my backpack, I turned towards the street in an attempt to leave.
It was decided; I was going to the river.
At least then, I could have a little peace and quiet. I could get a couple more song lyrics done.
“Are you leaving before you’ve come in?”
The gruff voice stopped me, bringing a chill to my bones.
“I, I, uh…” I stuttered.
“You’ve been standing there like the idiot you are for ten bloody minutes, boy. Get inside.” He demanded.
The door creaked open, and his ghostly face appeared in the crack.
“Y-yes, Dad.”
He stepped aside, letting me in.
As I dropped my backpack in the front hallway, I leaned against the locked door as I faced him.
“Well?” he asked.
“I, I, um…y-you see.” I choked out, unable to form words. The anger forming in his face terrified me.
“Tell me, why the fuck are you home from school so early? Did you skip again, you worthless faggot?”
“N-No!” I mumbled.
“Then what?”
Fuck.
“I, I, uh, I got suspended…” I squeaked out, ducking my head out of instinct as he stepped closer.
“What the fuck did you do this time?” he demanded.
“I, I tried to… I hit someone.”
He paused, smirking a little at the fact. “I’d ask if you did him justice, but I can see your face.”
I kept silent.
“Oi, Oliver. I can tell your pathetic ass didn’t do anything, they were just teaching you a lesson.”
“I, I…”
“Will you s-stop s-stuttering like a foo-fool?” my father mocked me. “Apparently they didn’t do a good job.”
I nodded.
“What the fuck am I going to do with you, Oliver? Look at you, how the fuck could someone want you?”
There was a sharp pain in my torso as he hit me.
“You look like a fucking faggot! How the bloody hell are you a son of mine? Son? You’re not a man.”
“Fuck, Oliver. You’re never going to achieve anything in your damned life! Never!”
“How did I end up with you? I don’t understand why your mum left you. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“Pathetic!”
“Worthless boy.”
“You’re such a fucking disgrace to this family! You made your mother fucking leave!”
“You ruined a perfect thing! Why the fucking hell are you still breathing, you fucking piece of shit.”
The alcohol on his breath was dizzying.
Each hurtful insult thrown at me was followed by another punch, another hit, another shove.
The anger was building in his eyes.
The physical pain couldn’t amount to his words; I couldn’t stand hearing them any longer.
“S-Stop.” I muttered.
“Not until you understand, Oliver!” he yelled. “The only thing I’m asking for is you stay out of my life! Go to school, get a job! Get out of my sight!”
I couldn’t look up.
Biting my lip, I contemplated making a run for it.
The door was right behind me, but he wasn’t going to let me leave. He would probably burn all my things.
Reaching down, I held onto my backpack and eyed the staircase. I could be safe in my room.
When he was distracted, glancing at the cheers coming from the television screen, I ran.
Each step was painful.
Tears were streaming down my face, blood dripping from cuts along my face and chest.
“Where the fuck do ye think you’re going, faggot?”
The anger was astonishing.
Before I could reach the last step, he had gripped his hand around my ankle and pulled.
The steps slid underneath me, as I tumbled down twelve wooden steps and onto the floor.
The room was spinning, the edges blackening.
“Fuck.” I mumbled, rubbing my head.
“Don’t think you’re getting away yet.” My father seethed, grabbing the collar of my shirt.
“D-Dad, please…” I whimpered.
“Don’t fucking call me that! You’re not my sun.”
He dropped me on the floor, pulling the denim jacket off my shoulders and exposing past scars and bruises.
“Take these with pride.”
He kicked my ribcage, letting out a haughty laugh.
“P-please…”
“Shut up!”
He leaned down, dropping himself to his knees.
His hands started fumbling with the zipper on my skinny jeans, tugging them down.
“No!” I yelled, letting the tears fall.
“Don’t cry.” He demanded. “You’re just proving you’re a faggot. I’m going to show you what faggots like.”
“N-no!” I repeated, kicking and trying to pull away. “Pl-please, don’t. I’ll do anything…”
He shook his head, pulling down my boxers and a look of admiration crossed his eyes for a second before he thrust into me.
“STOP!” I yelled.
“Shut up, boy!” he glared, slapping me.
Keeping silent, I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lips.
If I pretended this wasn’t happening, it would end quicker. This wasn’t happening.
Faintly, I recalled the words Josh had said once.
“Close your eyes and pretend it’s all a dream; that’s how I get by…”
“It’s not happening.” I whispered.
Pain was contorting in every part of my body, disgust pooling inside of me with every passing second.
This isn’t happening.
“Get up!”
Another slap brought me back to reality; naked on my living room floor with him standing over me.
I looked up, disoriented and hurt.
“I said, get up!” he yelled, kicking my bruised torso.
The sudden movement caused me to sway backwards, but I refused to fall. It wouldn’t end well.
“Fucking hell, Oliver. Why can’t you just drop dead already?” he mumbled, walking outside.
The sound of a car starting up filled the house, followed by silence.
“I hope you drive off the road.” I muttered, collapsing.
I didn’t care anymore.
Everything hurt; it had never been this bad.
I just wanted to stop thinking, to stop feeling, to stop breathing.
If only that could happen.



“Fuck.”
The room was cloudy, my vision blurred as I tried to open my eyes and look around.
I was still dumped on the floor.
It was getting dark, the room dim from the setting sun outside the half-drawn curtains.
Risking a look outside, I let out a sigh of relief when my father’s car still wasn’t back.
I was okay. I was safe.
Pushing myself up, I let out a groan as I moved my limbs.
“Fuck.”
The room was still spinning, my knees threatening to drop me on the floor as I stood.
Each step up the stairs was a battle, each breath was a war.
I couldn’t do this.
It wasn’t a physical thing anymore; I couldn’t keep moving if I tried. It was all mental.
It was all emotional.
Every part of me had been torn, ripped, stepped on, and burned. I was a pile of ashes with looking-glass eyes.
They swam with hurt, but I was too worthless to look at.
I wanted to give in.
As I reached the top step, I caught sight of my phone perched on the stained carpet.
It was softly vibrating.
Picking it up, I ached my way towards my bedroom.
When the door was locked, I sunk onto the floor with my head between my knees and dewdrop tears staining the floor.
Fuck it.
There were missed calls and texts from Josh, asking where I was.
“I’m coming home, and I miss you babe!”
“When are you coming by?”
“Should I stop by the bakery for cakes?”
“You didn’t reply, but I bought some anyway.”
“Oli?”
“Are you still coming over?”
“I miss you Oli…”
“Are you okay?” the last message read.
I had to hold in a laugh.
Was I okay?
No, I wasn’t. I was ready to take my last breath and I didn’t want to see daylight again.
There was too much pain.
There was one form of pain though, that I could control.
It took all the mental anguish and formed it into physical, releasing the turmoil through droplets of blood.
It was relieving.
Sighing, I forced myself up and opened the drawer near my bed, pulling out a loosened pencil sharpener.
There wasn’t a point in hiding it.
It’s not like anybody knew, it’s not like anybody cared.
Taking the sharpened blade, I ran it across my fingertips and just felt its shining edge.
It was starving, and my skin ached for its delicate touch.
Line after line, it left.
Its tragic structure left swelling red marks all along my arm, letting the crimson bubble up and spill over.
Slowly, they become longer and deeper.
It stained the blankets with its morbid wine, leaving a tearful memory in the pale fabric.
It was a symphony of emotions.
As I created the last cut, I let the blade fall from my grasp and fall onto the ground.
I didn’t see where.
The tears were blinding my vision, blurring all the colors.
Slumping back, I fell against the pillows. I didn’t care if they ended coated in blood.
I just wanted to stop existing, even if it was only for a couple hours.
Yet, I couldn’t sleep.
Lying awake for hours, I counted every flaw.
Every little thing wrong with me.
My stomach was grumbling, begging for food. I couldn’t eat.
There was nothing to eat.
I wasn’t allowed to step into the kitchen, touch the precious morsel of food that barely existed.
It could wait.
The rest of the week passed in this similar fashion.
Occasionally, my father would grab me and kick me around. He would have his way with me.
Shove me into the table, or down the steps.
I barely did anything.
I didn’t listen to music. I didn’t try to write.
I was empty; emotionless.
My phone lay forgotten on the floor, replacing the spot the razor held. The blade was always in my reach.
Always.
The entire seven days passed, and I hadn’t had a single bite to eat.
I couldn’t.
Everything hurt when I moved, and I only moved when it was absolutely necessary.
The shirt I hadn’t changed hung incredibly loose on my already thin frame.
I hadn’t talked to Josh in days.
If this was the other way around, I would have come ‘round by now, just to check if he was alright.
However, Josh didn’t know where I lived.
I planned on keeping it that way.
I’d lie if I had too, but he wasn’t going to find out about this; about this life.